


Existing

by prettyshiroic (kcgane)



Series: Chronically Keith [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Exhaustion, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Keith (Voltron)-centric, Overexertion, Platonic Relationships, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, group bonding and love, keith working through some things that comes hand in hand with this, support this boy he deserves the love, works up to that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 09:45:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12129783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcgane/pseuds/prettyshiroic
Summary: It’s not just pain that sweeps into his life uninvited and without ceremony. At first it is. But something else came with it too. Well. Many things. But they’re a mild annoyance. Keith doesn’t like to complain and grumble, so their presence is written off as ghostly. Haunting him from time to time, and that’s as far as he lets the interaction go.Then there’s this. This thing. It made conversations difficult and hard to follow, made words uncomfortable in his mouth. It stripped him of basic comprehension skills at the best of times, sentences on a page clearly there but entirely lost to him. At the worst of times, it strips him of much more than that.Existence at the expense of everything else.





	Existing

**Author's Note:**

> today was a Bad Health Day and a struggle. i really needed to feel like i'd achieved something at least, and thought maybe trying to get how this rather frustrating and exhausting thing feels when it hits, it would be interesting. this is really organic, maybe my writing sounds more worn than usual but i wanted to keep it as raw as possible. also i have no energy left to expend lmao. 
> 
> this is kind of a continuation on from Enduring. it picks up from that and touches on some of the themes from that piece.

It’s not just pain that sweeps into his life uninvited and without ceremony. At first it is. But there’s something else that came with it too. Well. Many things. But they’re a mild annoyance. Keith doesn’t like to complain and grumble, so their presence is written off as ghostly. Haunting him from time to time, and that’s as far as he lets the interaction go.

Then there’s _this._ This thing. It made conversations difficult and hard to follow, made words uncomfortable in his mouth. It stripped him of basic comprehension skills at the best of times, sentences on a page clearly there but entirely lost to him. At the worst of times, it strips him of much more than that.

\---

“Everything okay?” Shiro asks whilst pushing the dumbbell up. “You're kinda zoning out a lot today.”

Keith grips the weights in his own hands tighter. Tries to lift. Usually can, but everything is throbbing today in the destructive sort of way. He had hoped the gym would be a distraction. It's not. It's just a distressing reminder. How Shiro has managed to pick up on something Keith tried so hard to ignore himself, he doesn't know. Shiro’s good at that - he sets down the telescope people pass to him and looks with the naked eye. It's charming. Fitting too, because it's also how he shows Keith the constellations one cloudless night.

“Keith?”

Zoning out. Right. _Shiro’s not wrong_. Focusing is hard and thoughts are scattered.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No,” Keith says a beat too quickly which reveals he's lying. Shiro probably already knew that though.

Setting the dumbbell down, Shiro pries the weight from Keith. It slips away with ease. Keith’s fingers curl around the air, twitching.

“How about we wind down for the day?”

They've only _just got to the gym._ It's barely been ten minutes. Shiro has that glint in his eye, the one when he's decided to intervene and speak up.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Shiro.” He doesn't. He also can't keep up a conversation right now anyway. Words are intangible and becoming more and more so. Shiro doesn't need to see him flounder through speech and struggle in a way that only gives unspeakable things more presence. Shiro sees a lot, but he can't see that.

“We don’t have to talk. Come on, I think I have something that might help.”

Shiro sits cross-legged opposite him on the mats of the gym. After a beat, Keith follows and crosses his own legs. People are definitely staring, the way they always do when Shiro is around Keith. They look at Shiro in confusion and Keith gets the splintering shards of everybody’s jealousy hitting his back. People don’t like him much. He gets it. Figured. Being a skilled pilot makes him arrogant. Irritatingly talented. The amount of hardwork he pours into his craft seems forgotten, replaced with all kinds of things. Keith seldom pays attention to it, cares very little for the gossip and hearsay about himself.

“Close your eyes, Keith.” The instructions are spoken in a calm soothing voice. It usually would help, dispel any tension. But when Keith can hardly hold a train of thought or keep himself grounded, tolerance goes out the window. And a chaos sneaks in that he has no choice to indulge. It’s the only thing that sticks around.

With the final fragments of sharpness he can tie together, he turns to a group of cadets currently murmuring incessantly behind them. It’s curious; Keith watches quietly. Their eyes, as expected, flicker from Shiro to Keith. Back and forth, like watching a tennis match. There’s not just confusion there, _as expected_. The fangs of envy and disdain are bared in plain sight.

“What are you looking at?” One of them sneers. Jordan, or someone. Keith only remembers their name starts with a J, and they always make stupid inappropriate comments in class.

“Could ask you the same,” Keith drawls pointedly.

Shiro’s eyes snap open, observing the scene in untamed surprise. Drawing the attention of the Garrison’s golden boy seems to deflate the confidence of the group. They quickly disperse, leaving the pair of them together on the mats. Shiro clearly wants to comment, but Keith closes his eyes and deflects.

“What next.”

Pause. He can feel his body crumbling more now he’s still. His muscles are caught in an avalanche, strength evading him as this inexplicable terrible feeling refuses to let up. It takes a second too long to pick out the meaning in Shiro’s soft voice. He’s put a bit more space between each word, articulating them as if reciting a lecture in a room that echoes too much. Keith appreciates the understated gesture. That’s as far as he lets it go. Acknowledging it would mean letting Shiro know there’s a problem. It would ensure more worrying than it’s worth.

“Breathe in, focus on the breath and hold it.”

The air doesn’t feel like enough. No matter how much Keith sucks in, the oxygen doesn’t seem to ever reach his head. As a result he slumps more in posture. Counts to five until he hears Shiro say “release slowly”.

Breathing out with Shiro, Keith waits for the next instruction. A few seconds later nothing comes. Blinking open an eye, he pouts. If his jaw didn’t lock, punches from the fists of exhaustion pulsating in a line across his skin, he would speak. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to. Shiro cracks an eye open, chuckling fondly at the sight.

“Patience,” he chides but he’s grinning nonetheless.

Keith wants to tell Shiro that the only thing he has right now is _heaviness_. Patience is out of reach and difficult to obtain when his body behaves like this. But telling Shiro that with such blunt honesty can’t happen. Pressing his eyes shut again, Keith waits.

“Patience yields focus,” Shiro explains. A small absent hum escapes Keith’s lips. Vocalising small grunts and groans is at least a little easier than speech. Shiro understands him, probably. Considering he’s the only person who ever has, Keith’s counting on him understanding. “Do the breath, then repeat it.”

Inhale. Hold. Release.

“Patience yields focus.”

“Good. Let's go again,” he hears Shiro encourage.

Inhale. Hold. Release.

“ _Patience yields focus_.”

Four rounds later affirming the words, the exercise certainly helps Keith felt a little more rooted. At least this is something he can call up and register each time. It becomes almost instinctive, if that part of him wasn’t so suppressed and defeated right now. Instead it’s mechanical, shifting the gears back and forth to speak. But it’s not without budding determination, that’s more than what he had when they entered the gym.

Although none of this helps with the buzzing or the distance in his mind, it doesn’t matter. Because it’s not supposed to. Shiro isn’t giving him a solution to the things he won’t admit to, he’s giving him a tool to use however he wants. A choice.

As they walk down the corridor past the group of cadets that were caught staring, Keith understands the purpose of it. When Jordan fixes him a particularly distasteful glare, Keith blinks slow and steady. His eyelids feel like led, but he commits to the action. Inhale. Hold. Release. _Patience yields focus._

Shiro smiles proudly, hand resting on his shoulder as he steers them through the crowd.

\---

Keith doesn’t know what to call it, how to describe it. Or if he really wants to. Not naming these things, ignoring them has always been his preferred method of coping. Even with the pain, he’s barely begun to accept it’s never going away. Accepting limitations often becomes a battle against himself. 

Pidge used the word chronic once in passing when he was having a particularly bad day; it had been sharp and cutting that day. _Chronic._ The word pierced more than anything else. It wasn’t supposed to ever have a name, or even a _categorisation._ That’s not how it had ever been on earth. After he had stormed out and in protest hacked unfocused messy strikes into the gladiator’s staff, the subject never came back up. When Keith tried to apologise hours later, Pidge stopped him halfway through by shoving an Altean salve into his hands.

Apparently, the salve dulled overstimulated nerves.

He didn’t use it at first. It felt like a weakness, _defeat._

Now, having used it a mere handful of times, Keith has discovered that it works on the burning pain. It ebbs the vicious heat into something more bearable when he can’t just _push_ through it alone. But it doesn’t work on the other kinds. Because pain has different forms and different consequences when it manifests itself. Almost as unpredictable as Keith in battle, equally as persistent.

It might have taken years, but with resignation he can no longer deny that the pain _does_ exist. He owed not just himself, but his team that much. Because they’d pledged to support him and stand with him against it. Hunk had even installed a heater to his room, old repurposed tech from the castle he’d worked his genius on. Taking back the presence of pain would take back the bridges they had built together.

So Keith knows the pain is pretty much always here, in varying degrees. He knows it has been since he was about fifteen, and he knows that it probably isn’t going anywhere. 

Much like he knows pain is here, he also knows _this_ is here too.

Only like his instincts and intuition, it’s more of a feeling. _Kind of._ Hard to pin down. Greedy in nature, too. When it comes, slipping through the cracks fatigue leaves whilst ripping through him, it takes everything else and barricades it away. It takes so much from him. More than Keith has to give. He’s not left with nothing, he’s left with a hollow expanse that is a negative. It takes, and it takes. The stairs of the tower to retrieve what is taken are endless. Sometimes Keith gets to the top. Sometimes he barely gets past the first floor. But Keith climbs and climbs the spirals for hours despite that. His feet drag, exhaustion biting at his ankles and shackling weighted chains that trail behind him. 

No matter what, he never reaches the door.

_You were not meant to go through that door._

Even if he did, there’d be no key. He’d just be forced to stand there and stare directly at all the things that make him _Keith._ All those things that have been taken, detached and plucked out of his hands, hardly acknowledge him. Recognise him. _I know who I am._ He does. But when it hits, he doesn’t. Because he’s not here, not really. All of him is _in there._ Locked away, taken.

When it hits, he’s reduced to a hollow being with no substance.

Fortunately, it doesn’t happen a lot. But each time it does, Keith doesn’t have enough substance to react. Or process it. There’s just enough left inside him to exist.

That’s it.

\---

“How’re you feeling?” Shiro asks by the doorway.

He’s concerned. That much is clear through the frown that grows. It’s been a few hours since the team got back from the Balmera. Everyone quickly dispersed, unwinding slowly from the high left by adrenaline. They’d done a great job. After much hard work, they’d freed the Balmerans from the Galra, beaten that robeast and successful won with Voltron.

“You went pretty quiet on the way back.”

 _You’re kinda zoning out a lot today._ It’s almost like they’re right back there, sitting on those gym mats at the garrison. Inching further into the room, Shiro waits. He knows just how to push Keith in the best way. Waiting for him to respond is exactly the right move. Inciting a stalemate is smart. In times like this, Keith hates nothing more than being static. Glancing up, Keith watches the concern shift. It becomes more understated, making way for a gentle coaxing smile. _Give me an inch at least Keith,_ he can hear nestled in it.  

Guilt seeps over Keith just thinking about the picture he must be painting for Shiro to be looking at him like that. To be expending his own energy _worrying._ Allura had fought so hard, giving her life force again over and over. She did this _over and over_ without hesitation. If _anyone_ had the right to be fatigued and _feeling this,_ it was her. Allura should be the one receiving support and encouragement. Hunk had to say goodbye to Shay. Lance and Pidge worked hard (he and Lance had even worked well as a team). _Then there was Shiro._

“Fine.” Keith is only capable of monosyllabic speech right now. Even then it’s a stretch, a stretch that takes more effort than it should. Elastic that could snap at any moment and hurtle him further away. Not to mention there’s every chance the word he’s looking for each time will just disappear.

Shiro sighs. Perching on the edge of the bed, he looks down at his Galra prosthetic.

“Sometimes I find it hard to process stuff too,” he begins. “It’s….I don’t think it’s quite the same. But I lose track of what’s going on, who I am or _\- where_. I just exist somewhere for a while.”

 _Exist._ That was it. Nothing more, nothing less.

 _Existence_ at the expense of everything else. 

Keith sits up and pushes through the sludge hardening around his body. Even though that resonates in him, they are not comparable. _This is not shared._ Shiro shouldn’t be trying to make Keith feel better like this. No. This thing he’s feeling is a product of not trying hard enough to fight against it in the first place. Keith brought this on himself. Shiro’s lapse into simply _existing_ comes from a different place. It’s not something Keith can fully relate to, pretending he can is insulting to Shiro. Even now, Keith gets it. Shiro's talking about dissociation, and so much more than that. 

“Shiro…”

“You’re strong, Keith.” There’s no room to argue against it. Shiro says it so reverently and _that’s wrong._ Because Shiro is the strong one. _Not Keith._ Keith is hardly able to form a sentence right now and _make it matter._ Leaning back against the pillow, Keith purses his lips. They’re trembling against his will. Great. His entire body just thrives off not doing what it’s told or supposed to, apparently.

“You mean _you’re_ strong,” Keith spits out quickly before the words are gone and he has to feel them dissolve away on the tip on tongue into oblivion. He’s not strong. Keith is a product of endurance and persistence, stubbornly fighting back against the things the universe throws at him. He doesn't quit. That doesn’t make him strong. Especially when _now_ all he seems capable of doing is sitting here and stewing in a sluggish mesh that swallows him whole each and every time. Strength wins in the face of _everything,_ surely. 

“Not all the time. And sometimes I forget that’s okay.” Shiro says that as if he knows exactly what Keith is thinking.

 _What the hell._ Fierce affection thrums in him, _strong_ enough to punch through the sticky unpleasant web confining him to this weak state of being. Words evade him. This is a moment where speaking his mind and articulating just everything Shiro makes him be and _want to be_ is crucial. Shiro smiles shakily, pushing the bangs off Keith’s forehead before retreating. No words are exchanged, and Keith realises why. Shiro wants him to feel comfortable, on equal footing and without expectations. No matter what that entails.

The debilitating fatigue leaves ten minutes later, leaving Keith in the arms of its dear friends overexertion and quiet despair. Sleep isn’t welcomed. But closing his eyes is all Keith can bring himself to do. He can’t fight the way his eyes stop blinking and stay firmly shut, so he doesn’t. It’s another defeat. Yet Shiro’s words make it a bit easier. _Sometimes I forget that’s okay._  

\---

Keith sets the knife down hurriedly as Coran enters his room. He hadn’t been expecting a visitor. Shiro always knocks despite always being welcome, and nobody else ever seeks him out in their downtime. Which is fine. Keith understands. Beyond the professional nature of their team bonding, there are gaps difficult to fill or know _how to._ It’s apparent enough in what’s said and what _isn’t said._ But Keith knows not to take it personally. Pidge, Lance and Hunk are familiar with each other. Just like he is with Shiro.

Though right now, he feels far from even Shiro. He can’t face him properly with the possible implications of _what the symbol on his knife means._ It’s too much. He doesn’t have the facts yet, or enough information to speculate properly.

As Coran goes to leave the room, Keith leaps off the bed.

“Wait, Coran!”

The man stops, turning round at the doorway.

“Are there any side effects to being mixed uh, species?” _Part alien,_ he almost says.

He can’t deny he’s been entertaining this idea since the hypothesis came into his head. If he really _is_ part Galra or this knife really _is_ what he thinks it is, then maybe it would explain a lot. It would explain why the pain started, or why it suddenly came into his life. Some kind of disturbance in his genetics could be plausible and offset his nervous system. _Maybe._ Keith’s no expert. And he definitely doesn’t want to give credit to pain and all its shitty friends. But maybe for the first time everything he’s experienced has logical _genuine_ legs to stand on besides his own self-proclaimed symptoms.

Moustache twitching in surprise, Coran hums thoughtfully.

“Well that’s an interesting question. I have heard of some offspring developing certain conditions as a result of their heritage… though it depends on what is inherited.”

Right. Keith couldn’t get specific answers because he wasn’t _asking_ specifically enough. Coran may have the knowledge, but asking again about this was a risk. _Coran was Altean, after all._ The knife itself seems more and more offensive to have in his possession, even though it’s simply an object he’s had with him his whole life. A piece of him, a piece of his past. Maybe it's a piece of his future, too.

“Did you have an example in mind, Keith?”

_Yes._

“Not really.”

_Human and Galra._

Coran takes that as his cue to leave. Keith realises then he’s been _wasting time._ It doesn’t matter, these things don’t matter. He has better questions to ask than that. Darting out the room, Keith chases after the Altean down the corridor.

He asks better questions. As a result he gets better answers. But it still leaves him with this secret quest, chipping away at the facts to piece together the truth.

He finally uncovers it at the blade of marmora headquarters not too long after, when the knife is awoken in his hands. A ceremonial luxite blade all members of the organisation carry on their person.

He’s Galra. _Part Galra_ , at least.

There’s still many questions, but it’s something. Better, it’s something to blame. Coran _did_ say it was possible for conditions to develop, after all. It doesn’t ever need a name, but an explanation for _everything inside him wreaking havoc whenever it pleases_ wouldn’t go amiss. This could be it. There’s no time to dwell on it further, nor does Keith have any desire to. This has always been a subject tucked into dusty corners and pointedly ignored, and that’s not about to change.

They’re out here fighting a war.

There are bigger and far more important things going on.

\---

When Keith opens his eyes, he knows it's going to be one of _those days._ The ones he opts to ignore and wants to erase, but knows that's not how it works. He may not know _what this is_ , but he knows that much. 

Sitting up takes time. More than he wants it too. Less time than he has, than the _universe_ has. Voltron can't wait for him and neither can the team. But at this rate it's going to have to. Lifting a hand to his face, Keith groans. It's not tired or grumpy, it's pleading. Something desperate and helpless rings out in it.

Good thing nobody else can hear it.

He can barely hear it himself. The hand dragging down his face feels weird. Hard blink. It’s his hand. Oh. It still feels weird. His face is like clay. Keith wonders if he pushes hard enough whether he can mould the skin into new shapes, pry it open and trace along the bones that form his skull. Rub away the tender soreness emanating deep inside. He feels bruised. Bones. Skin. Organs. Everywhere.

He still isn't out of the damn bed yet. Out of spite for _this thing_ , with resistance he doesn't have the energy to orchestrate, Keith stands. It’s not clumsy, nor is it fluid. It’s just an action. An action with no meaning, _which isn’t right._ Standing up feels quick, only it's not. He isn't sure if it's slow either. But his balance is just fine - surely that counts for something. Has to. Still his body sags, gravity pushing him down without remorse.

The next three steps forward are harder than three hundred in the fierce relentless heat of the desert sun.

Keith hates it. This unwilling shift in pace. No matter how fast he moves, or tries to, this is wasted time. Not borrowed, because Keith can't give it back. He can't give _anything_ when this happens. There’s nothing left to give. He’s hollow. Empty. Not even a shadow of himself.  _Existence at the expense of everything._

The drive to move forwards sinks, too heavy to dredge up above the thick sediment of fatigue that is shovelled onto his shoulders. He stands there. Static. Unusually stoic. Lost sparks of passion, not quite lost but impossible to recover when hands can hardly hold the blade competently for a single parry. Everything is heavy, everything is too much. The effort to process stimuli dwindles against the ache in his bones.

There's no throbbing in his head today. It's not sharp, not like his experiences with _whatever this is_ have been like before. It's all dull. There’s a dull buzzing in his head, like a hive of bees humming away unpleasantly. The pollen they're harvesting must be all his coherent thought, because Keith can hardly string one together. Between each word is sticky nectar. It's an adhesive, but not in the way he'd expect. Sensations, words; they come in and they don't _stick._ Only the remnants of them are left imprinted in his brain.

And then there's the vibrating. The bees. No. Actually... that's probably too small. Maybe it's more like shockwaves rippling through him. His own personal tectonic plates crashing together in his head, creating continuous quakes and aftershocks. It feels big. Maybe bigger, something cosmic squeezing out the capacity to be sentient.

Either way, it's intrusive and uncomfortable. A little terrifying. But nothing he feels is intense or really there. Panic is on a horizon he can't reach, only tiny slivers of it run through his blood. It doesn't stick. _Nothing sticks._

Keith realises on days like this that _this is the worst part._ This is so deeply unwelcome and unwarranted. This is the part he dreads, the part he wants to destroy over and over again but never can. Bitterly, maybe he’d even admit it's unfair. Because _pain is fine._ The fire that betrays him, the knife that turns on him - those things are better. Endurance is better, because endurance means that something is going on. Something is happening. It means that the will to persist, and the ability to, is present.

At least with endurance there's fire.

Here, there's just existence. A place he stands but doesn't fit and yeah he can barely feel the ground. Feet are pressed into cold coals where a fire once burnt. _It always burnt so how could it stop like this_. The absence of it doesn't bring cold chills, just something jarringly empty. No purpose, no direction, no drive. Dull existence.

\---

They’re talking. At him. Keith knows they are. And he’s trying to listen because maybe it’s more than that. The team could be talking to him too. But the humming is loud. So damn loud. He can’t tune it out and focus on anything besides existing. Breathe. In. Out. Breathe again. Lance presses a hand to his shoulder, and it stings. The hand sinks down, as if crushing skin and denting it. Malleable. Keith is malleable. And _Lance…_ Lance is still talking. Keith can’t decipher it. Turning from the black lion to Lance, he watches the way his mouth moves. Sound is definitely coming out.

Keith looks up. There’s a soft gleam in Lance’s eyes, a little too close to pity. Keith doesn’t want pity. He can’t confirm if it’s really there though, because he can’t separate each word being thrown at him. He also can’t seem to focus on Lance’s face properly. The blue paladin is a grainy photograph that moves, not quite the real thing even though he’s right there.

It’s so unsettling Keith has to look away.

Focus. Something yields focus. The words drift through his mind, a haze that doesn’t help anything. Yields nothing. Shiro is gone. Shiro is _gone_ and he’s just standing here. All he can do is stand here and stare. Can’t think. Can’t _speak,_ can’t _anything._ Allura chips in, and the sheer resolve in her tone is enough to lure him a little further back. Not quite. But just enough for the corners of her words to sense. It’s a puzzle he can just about piece together. They’re talking about Shiro. Voltron. _Irreplaceable._

“I know you’re right,” he offers absently, attention on the black lion.

The black lion will help. Not with any of _this,_ but it will help with finding Shiro and setting everything right.

He's sure of it. 

\---

“ _Please_ , no,” he manages when the black lion stirs into life beneath his palms days later, confirming everything he feared. Exhaustion has yet to relinquish its hold on him, sunken deeper into his skin and carving out cheekbones more prominently. He’s despairing, desperate in his objections and defeated in his actions. Still going, _trying._ The fog is here, present. As the cockpit lights up, it's too bright and he winces. _Please no,_ he repeats because it wasn’t meant to be this way.

_Never like this._

\---

It’s rare for Keith to lose things. He’s pretty methodical and careful with his placement of things. Back at the shack, despite the rundown state and rickety interior, he took pride in keeping things arranged in a way he could decipher. It’s not exactly tidiness or meticulously organised, it’s just accessible. When he puts something down, he puts it somewhere logical he’ll know to come back to. And he does come back to it without a problem most the time.

When _this happens,_ however, it’s not uncommon for instincts and intuition to leave his side. Existing solely to exist.  _At the expense of everything else._

“Lost it,” Keith manages, not able to look at Hunk as the yellow paladin steps into the room. He's been here for a while now. Searching. No longer sure what for but it's missing. He needs to find it. Something close to humiliation builds in him, then flitters away. He’s left with nothing. Of course. A few blinks later, he tries again.

“Can’t find it.”

The imperative has always suited Keith. He likes it. Mostly because he can say everything he needs to through it. Information can be passed clearly without meandering and losing seconds. It’s not rude, just to the point. It’s efficient and easy to navigate. Being direct and clear _makes sense_ , is the best way to communicate in order to get the best response. But sometimes, even that gets lost. _Ha._ A laugh escapes his lips. Raspy and dejected. He’s lost a lot of things. He lost a person, with a name he’d never forget _because it’s so important_ but the name is too difficult to form right now. Grey eyes he can just about place belong to that person. A lost person… somewhere. Keith lost himself when _this thing_ hit twenty minutes ago. And currently, he’s looking for something else he lost because of it.

Something you wear.  

“Uh… sorry,” Hunk prods his fingers together awkwardly. He sounds genuinely apologetic. “You’re gonna have to give me more to work with that _,_ Keith. I- don’t get me wrong, I want to help you but I don’t know what you’re talking about you’re being really ambiguous in your phrasing.” pause. Keith scowls, or thinks he does. He tries to because _he already knows that_ and is _painfully_ aware of it. Hunk holds up a hand.

“Sorry - not helping, I know, okay. Let’s try again. Could you... maybe could you describe it for me?”

The question rings out. Keith considers it. Takes a bit longer than normal.

“It’s…” Holding up his hands, stiff and rigid in ways he can’t overcome despite clenching fists and cracking knuckles, Keith takes a breath. Okay. He can try. Hunk wouldn’t laugh, would he? No. He wouldn’t. “You wear it over your face. It - it’s like a bowl for fish but it - it has… no water or fish in it.”

So. Yeah. Description has never been his forte. Detail, _yes._ Absolutely. But relaying that to others through figurative speech and comparisons never quite works out. When things are _like **this** _ it’s a total shambles. All Keith can conjure in his own head is something vague and unclear. Obscure and abstract, far from anything that makes sense. Far from imperatives he likes to use. Ridiculous and _embarrassing_ explanations are all it lets him do, all whilst wandering through the haze building in his head. Inevitably, he has no chance at saying something another person can understand. The word just isn’t there anymore. It’s gone. The memory of what he's looking for is too distorted to remember. Fuzzy round the edges, lacking clarity and distinction. But it’s a word he knows. Definitely. He _has_ to know it.  _How can he not know it._

“Upside down too, and we all wear it. When we go to fight stuff.” Frustration is realms away, but in any other circumstance he would feel it. It would rush over him and have him huffing. He just feels tired, worn. Weathered down. Existing and hardly succeeding with that much.

“We put it on each time,” he repeats. Hands move up to brace his ears. Or something. It’s easier to gesture. Yeah. _What are words._

“Oh! _Oh!_ ” Jumping on the spot, a little too enthusiastically, Hunk’s eyes brighten. “I’ve got it! You’ve lost your helmet.”

The minute the word is spoken, Keith jolts. _Helmet._ That’s it. Right. Elation doesn’t come, because he knew that word. It’s so simple and obvious. Hunk seems pleased they figured it out together, but Keith can’t share that. He’s embarrassed. It was so difficult to say, so difficult to _find_ that word. And it shouldn’t be. He nods quietly as a response instead.

They walk in stilted silence after that. Maybe Hunk has questions about all of this, maybe he doesn’t. Keith only has enough energy to haul his body forwards and attempt to search. But Hunk is curious, intelligent in ways Keith isn’t. So questions do come in ways that aren't always expected. It’s not the same inquisitiveness Hunk has as Pidge, he tends to be more nosy if Keith is being honest. 

“Does this... happen a lot?”

Keith shrugs defeatedly. Acknowledging it doesn’t help, ignoring it doesn’t either.

“Been a while,” he eventually admits. It has. Hunk comes to a stop, something stern in his expression.

“Then you should rest.”

 _It doesn’t make a difference_ , Keith wants to say. But no words form. He gives another nod. It’s easier that way. For both of them. Being leader now leaves no room for rest and _none of this_ should be so readily on display. Showing weakness would offset the team more. He has to keep strong for them. _You’re so strong Keith -_ the words are familiar, as is the voice. Keith can’t place it. About ten minutes later, they find his helmet set down on the table in the dining room. Keith must’ve put it there this morning, only he doesn’t remember doing that.

It’s strange. Misplacing things is human. He’s part human, so it has to be normal. Pidge does it enough times around the castle with tech. But this feels subhuman, sub- _everything._ Picking up the helmet, Keith forces his lips up. They barely move, a tiny curve etches into the corner of the mouth.

“Thanks.”

He feels better. But only a little. As he leaves the room, it comes to him an overpowering wave that breaks the steady flow of his breath. _What else he lost._

“Shiro.”

 _Shiro. Shiro. Shiro. Shiro._ Takashi Shirogane. His best friend. Family. The name that is so very important - that is lost. It isn’t one he should have forgotten. Even for a few moments.

“Um.” Hunk hovers awkwardly beside him. Unsure and uncomfortable in this private moment. “I’m sorry, Keith. Shiro isn’t here.”

 _I know that, I_ **_know_ ** _that._ Hunk doesn’t mean to sound patronising, but it’s the only thing he hears in the words. Communicating with the team is hard enough, but now it’s a task he simply can’t complete. There’s a wall he didn’t build between them. He can’t knock it down, doesn’t have the tools to do so. Shoving against it just causes more calamity. Keith retreats to his room, setting the helmet down on the foot of the bed. Blinking back the moisture from his eyes, he shoves a hand roughly against his forehead. Maybe he could knock it away by force, shake the thick fog out his mind. Closing his eyes, he breathes in. Hold. Release.

 _Patience yields focus._ That’s it, the words he lost. He found those words, just like he found his helmet.

But he hasn’t found Shiro, not yet.

\---

They find Shiro many months later.

The black lion hones in on a signal and goes straight for it. Keith clutches the controls tightly as the pod comes into view.

\---

Keith _can’t read it_ despite his best efforts. The information on his holopad means nothing to him. He’s skimmed the screen at least a dozen times, and for the life of him he can’t seem to grasp any of it. The translations are fine. Pidge does a good job of keeping the castle tech up to date. It’s not that. _He knows what it is._ He’s always known. He just _really_ didn’t want it to happen now. Or ever. But especially now. 

“Hello? _Universe_ to Keith,” Lance is suddenly right there, waving a hand in front of his face.

Blinking, Keith slowly drags his eyes up to Lance’s face. He sets down the pad, scanning the room slowly. They’re on the bridge, and all eyes are on him. The attention is pressing. He flinches and folds his arms. Better than giving in and rubbing at the sore spot at the back of his head. Apparently, they’ve been having a conversation, and Keith’s lack of response has definitely been noted. Unusual and worthy of probing. Adjusting glasses, Pidge’s eyes rest on his shoulder. It’s more obvious than it should be that since the trials of marmora, pain has been progressively worse in that particular area.

“Are you okay? Do you need more salve? Or-?”

Before Pidge can continue, Keith stands up. _It’s not pain, exactly._ It’s not that. He looks to Shiro, who seems equally as bewildered. _That’s not right_. That’s really wrong and strange. Shiro always seemed to know, understand. It would be alarming, if everything wasn’t so _far away._ Keith can’t catch his train of thought, grasp hold of the scene and his emotions. No fire. No endurance. He’s been progressively slipping further into the dense cloud of merely existing.

“No! I-”

“-Guys. Wait a second,” Hunk chips in unexpectedly. Seriously, he pushes his hands together. “I think it’s helmet time.”

 _What._ Blinking slowly, Keith turns to the yellow paladin in open surprise. He’s clearly trying to handle this as sensitively as possible without saying too much and making Keith feel more out of place. But the _implications_  have to mean Hunk’s told the others about the _helmet incident._ Or they found out somehow and have some kind of ridiculous _plan_ to try and help Keith out. It’s a little embarrassing. He’s momentarily frustrated they all seem to _immediately_ get what Hunk means by the word ‘helmet’, but Keith’s not about to throw accusations around, nor has the energy to. Right now, he’d be lying if he wasn’t grateful for such a convenient way out.

“Is it, Keith?” Hunk asks slowly, unsure how to go about this all over again.

Nodding, Keith averts his gaze. Guess that’s what they’re calling it then. Better than _sometimes my brain turns to mush because of exhaustion and the pain and I have trouble processing anything._ Shorter, at least. Definitely shorter.

“Sorry...” the shame rises up in him. He’s _so empty and vacant._ Hollow. He hates it. He hates everyone is witness to it and that he doesn’t know how long it’s going to last this time round. It’s been _weeks._ His body had finally seemed to be behaving better.

Lance steps back and smiles softly. Not sympathetically, nor with pity. It’s just a smile. Allura walks over, clasping his hand tightly and squeezing.  

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Keith.”

Shiro lingers on the outskirts of the group which is once again  _really_ _weird and wrong._ But so much inside Keith is _already weird and wrong._ He has no idea how to process it. The information is filed away to dissect later, when he actually has the capacity to think properly.

“Yeah,” Hunk nods with enthusiasm. “One time Lance called cauliflower ‘ _baby snow trees people eat’._ ”

“I couldn’t remember the english word!” Lance snaps petulantly, but he’s still smiling.

Keith realises what’s happening then, they’re giving him pieces of themselves and trying to support him. It’s a little awkward. But it means more than he can articulate. Pidge has scooted closer, typing less frantic and holopad data streaming at a slower pace. As the team huddle around him, Allura lets go of his hand whilst scrunching her nose.

“What’s a cauliflower?”

Nobody speaks, and Keith is floored because once again they’re trying to help him through this. Somehow all of them seem to understand that a little bit of cohesion, _proving_ he can still communicate in the face of this thing, is exactly what he needs to have. Even if it’s just a few words here and there that take more strain than usual. Lips twitching, Keith meets eyes with Lance and the blue paladin squints at him suspiciously. It feels natural, a little less awkward. A raspy laugh escapes Keith’s lips as he looks up at Allura and speaks.

“Baby snow trees people eat.”

“I take back being nice to you,” Lance retorts, _still smiling._ “Ignore every nice thing I’ve ever said about you.”

“So that’s like what? _Four things_?” Pidge teases in harmless jest, not missing a chance to swing this conversation.

The team laugh, Hunk elbowing Lance playfully as the blue paladin indignantly splutters. Keith watches them quietly. Pidge pries the holopad from his lap and starts reworking the text into simple bullet point format, something much easier for him to digest in this current situation. The font is a little bigger too. And the thoughtfulness of it surprises him. Not that he should be _too surprised._ Pidge did hunt down the alien salve. Their eyes meet, and tentative smiles are exchanged.

These unspoken things are definitely still here, unwelcome and unwanted. They’ll always be here. The strange unpleasant fog that takes and _takes_ without remorse is hovering over Keith. He can’t shake it. _But it’ll pass._ And for the first time since _this thing_ started happening, tiny embers flicker beneath his skin. He isn’t just existing here anymore. The fire is modest and small, but it’s _there._ Familiar and beginning to spill into the hollow cracks.

“Right, Keith?” Lance asks from his side.

“Whatever you say Lance,” Keith deadpans without hesitation, having absolutely no clue what everyone is talking about. But that’s _okay._ It’s a little easier with the team here. They’ve given him the chance to work through this a different way.

“Okay just for the record I don’t like helmet time, Keith has more spunk than should be allowed.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t like helmet time either,” Keith confesses, startled by how honest he’s being about the subject. _Admitting it, acknowledging it._ Something he never thought he’d do. Pidge stops typing, glancing over to Keith. There’s something hesitant about it all.

“I think the more recognised term is brain fog, but helmet time could work.”

Raising an eyebrow, Pidge waits. _Chronic._ The word rings in his mind. It’s not a challenge, nor is it a test. He understands why Pidge brought it up. Unlike their last attempt at this, he doesn’t walk out. Instead he chews on his lip. It’s not _easy_ to accept. Part of him doesn’t want to. But there’s a firm hand on his shoulder, Shiro’s. And that evokes something in him. _Sometimes I forget that's okay._

“Yeah,” he agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope it was a good read and enjoyable. it was important to write and i've been thinking about continuing something for Enduring for a long while. i wonder if the tone is different whilst being linked, i kind of hope so bc whilst with Enduring it's capturing an intensity keith can describe, this is right at the heart of something that just strips down everything in a way that is much harder to explain haha.


End file.
